I suppose it is only to be expected that once the water had drained out, they would find the body.

I mean, how long did I really expect the waves to keep my secrets.

No one else ever had.

It started with a shout. Of horror, disbelief and a sense of “Wow man! Do you SEE that?!?”

That morbid fascination with finding death so close, so grotesquely close.

Then came the sirens, and the splatter of rubber boots amongst the muddied remains of what was once a small lake.

Flash-flash, as the coroners photographers vied with the press to capture that one shot that would perhaps explain it all.

Turning the body over, looking for wounds, signs of a struggle. I wish they would be careful. More gentle. They don’t realize that their rough hands hurt even more after death. Emotional scarring carries over to the soul.

They talk. Who is she? How did she get here? What happened to her?

All they have to do is ask. Come on, ask me mister policeman. Ask me what happened. And I’ll show you how it was done.

It wasn’t that hard. It just took a handful of pills, and a cheap bottle of whiskey. A late night, left once again all alone to play by the water.

But I’ve been here so long. I thought I’d finally be left alone. I didn’t mind it under the water, amongst the weeds, cushioned gently in the mud.

And now you’ve moved me.

Is this how all hauntings begin?